


Are They Happy? (They Will Be With Time)

by Bfly1225



Category: HLVRAI - Fandom, Half Life VR But The AI Is Self Aware
Genre: Bubby and coomer are in love i guess, Gen, Post canon, first hlvrai fic on ao3 don't bully my gay ass, gman isn't a character tag? guys come on, it might be elaborated on if i'm not lazy, it's implied - Freeform, this is setting up all my future AU ideas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25945912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bfly1225/pseuds/Bfly1225
Summary: Everybody goes back to the homes they never had.
Relationships: Bubby & Dr. Coomer (Half-Life)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Are They Happy? (They Will Be With Time)

Gordon Freeman slumped, his back to his shitty apartment door. 

He’d always meant to start looking for houses that his job at Black Mesa could afford. 

Since things went to hell there, he hadn’t known a night of good, true sleep. 

The nightmare was over, he’d finally gotten home, after a week of hell. He’d gotten the HEV suit off, since it had been broken at his arm anyways. He could just pry the damm thing off, one piece at a time.

Speaking of. . . 

Since he got out, after he left the “movie” the strange Mr.Coollatta had brought him to see, it was just a normal prosthetic. He hadn't seen or felt it change, but. . . It was scarred over when he took it off. Not an old wound yet, but certainly not recent. Not like it had been with the gun. 

He was past asking questions anymore. 

He was dressed in Chuck E. Cheese memorabilia, sweaty, grimy, blood-covered, and honestly? He just wanted to sleep. 

He pushed himself to his feet. He was going to go sit in the shower, turned up far too hot, wear an old t shirt and worn sleep pants he’d gotten from his grandma for christmas six years ago, and sleep in his own bed, with normalcy. 

He still couldn’t help looking around corners for skeletons. 

Dr. Coomer was in a neighborhood. It was his neighborhood, but he’d never been there. He walked down the street. It was his street, but he had never been there. 

And he pulled out of his pockets keys to a house that was his. It even said Coomer on the mailbox. 

And he’d never been to this house in his life. 

He turned the lights on in the hallway. Pairs of shoes were lined up, all in his size. 

He. . . wasn’t sure he remembered not wearing these shoes ever. 

This house was filled with things he would’ve put in a house. The bathroom had the sort of products he would use to tame his frizzy hair. The kitchen was stocked with the sort of things he imagined he’d eat. (Had he eaten much of anything since leaving Black Mesa?) The bed had the sort of pillows he’d prefer (and he was tempted to just lay down now.) 

Well. . . It wasn’t Super Punchout Two for the Super Nintendo Entertainment System. 

But it was nice enough. And even though Dr. Coomer hadn’t been there before, it was home. 

He got a text. He didn’t even know he had a phone. He pulled it out. 

It was an older smartphone, and a crack spiderwebbed from the corner. He opened it with a swipe. 

The text was from Bubby. Dr. Coomer smiled. 

“I got home safe. See you tomorrow for job hunting?” The text asked. 

“Sure! Ybou can come here if you’d want.” Dr. Coomer replied. He noticed the typo after he sent it. 

“As if I’d let you come to my apartment. It’s a mess.” 

“Well, my doors are always open to you.” 

“Doors are easily picked anyways.” 

Dr. Coomer sat down on the bed. And then he got back up. What was he doing?? He was filthy. He needed to go change. 

The closets were full of clothes he would wear when off the clock. 

Every shirt was brand new. 

Bubby’s apartment sucked. 

And, also, they shouldn’t have a fucking apartment, they came from Black Mesa, why did they have an apartment???

This garbage was all shit they totally would have put there and left there because who gives a hot, flaming fuck?

But the couch was cleared off, and the off white walls could. . . be less clean, they supposed. And the bed was also clean. And there were wooden wick candles in pussy scents like “ocean breeze” and “peony”- he assumed those were a product of Coomer’s attempts to feed into Bubby’s desire to set all things on fire. 

They. . . They smiled softly, and picked up a fancy silver lighter (also from Coomer, a long time ago- even if that hardly made sense) from the table next to the ocean breeze candle and set it on fire, smiling at the wooden crackle and just letting the flames dance for a moment. 

Then they moved on. 

Bills were tossed on the small kitchen table, opened and left in their envelopes. 

Shit. They needed a job to pay for their apartment. 

Or they could go stay with Harold. . . ?

No. No, actually, because Harold needed to pay for utilities also, and Black Mesa wasn’t. . . yeah. So they pulled out a cracked smartphone from their pocket (had it survived Black Mesa? Bubby assumed not. They were past questions. They’d been past questions for a long, long time) and popped open a chat with Harold. 

“I got home safe.” They opened with. They didn’t want Harold to worry. “See you tomorrow for job hunting?” 

“Sure! Ybou can come here if you’d want.” Harold responded. Bubby laughed softly. Harold never had been able to get his fingers around the keypad well. Bubby’s skinny, gangly fingers lent themselves to the task, they were just lazy. (had they ever used a smartphone before?)

“As if I’d let you come to my apartment. It’s a mess.” They responded. 

“Well, my doors are always open to you.” Harold returned, and Bubby couldn’t help but smile. 

Of course they were. They always had been, even before they’d gotten their jobs at Black Mesa, and. . . 

What were they thinking? They were born into Black Mesa. They met Dr.Coomer through the thick glass of a test tube. They talked to Dr.Coomer when they were allowed to exit to work in the labs. 

There wasn’t a before. There hadn’t even been college. They hadn’t met Harold. . . oh, where did they even meet? Campus? A cafe? A cafe on campus? That sounded right. But- but it wasn’t. It wasn’t right at all. Bubby shook their head one more time. 

“Doors are easily picked anyways.” 

“Sunkist! I- I’m home!” Tommy called, closing the door behind him and toeing off his sneakers. Sunkist’s paws collided with the linoleum-that-looked-like-hardwood and woofed gently (not loud enough to wake the neighbors, but just enough to show his love) at Tommy while nosing his hand for pets. 

Tommy knew this house perfectly well. His dad helped picked it out for him when he’d said he was ready to move out, about 10 years ago now. 

That had also been the start to him beginning to make Sunkist.

"I'm sorry I was gone, Sunkist." Tommy kneeled down, and Sunkist turned, leaning the side of his body against Tommy while his whole body swayed from the action of his wagging tail. "I-it was a hard couple of day f-for me. . . Uh. . . Too." Tommy wrapped his arms around his dog, patting him and hugging him, his soft fur, just the perfect texture. 

Sunkist craned his neck to lick Tommy's cheek and offer him a big dog smile. 

"Yeah, I-I'm just glad I get to see you too, buddy." Tommy grinned, giving Sunkist two more pats and standing back up. He walked to the kitchen and saw a note on the table, tucked up under the handle of a case his favorite soda that he didn't remember getting. 

"I made sure to walk Sunkist twice a day while you were gone. I hope you had a wonderful birthday!  
Dad"

It read in an immaculate scrawl, and Tommy smiled. 

"Thanks, Dad." He spoke into open air. He didn't know if his father was listening, but he'd thank him again whenever he came to see him next. "Did you have fun with Dad, Sunkist?" He asked, to which he got another gentle and happy woof. He responded that way to most questions.

Tommy still wasn't sure if Sunkist was just trying to emulate speech without truly understanding, or if he was just a particularly cheerful puppy. That was something he hadn't made Sunkist do- the perfect dog needed some of its own mysteries, after all. Tommy hadn't ever intended to program every aspect of the dog he set out to make. 

Just to change the things that were difficulty factors in the dog to begin with, like destructive behaviors or dying. 

When he was 8, he'd been adopted by his father. 

When he was 9, they adopted a dog and paid to have him trained. 

When he was 18, he stood, sniffling, as the vet explained that there was nothing they could do, his dad's arm wrapped around his shoulder. 

When he was 19, he decided he would never go through that ever again. He would make the perfect dog, just like the last one but unique in his own way. And immortal. When Tommy died, he would find a kid that would love Sunkist forever, just as much as he'd loved him. Then Sunkist would have a good home. 

Though he'd been thinking about working on the whole "him dying" bit, and he supposed that if he picked up the family business. . .

“Sunkist! You ready for- a- a walk, boy?” 

Sunkist had already brought his leash and was staring up at Tommy. 

Tommy would be home in time to watch TV. 

Benrey had been here before. The code. He’d crawled out as he’d been defeated. 

He didn’t have to be evil here. He just. . . was. 

“You weren’t supposed to be here.” A hauntingly low voice echoed out. Benrey snapped his head to see an older gentleman, holding a briefcase. 

“Uh- I’m sorry, I guess.” He replied, sitting on the file that probably helped make the world function or whatever. 

“You are quite the anomaly.” The man said, taking paces across empty space to get close to Benrey. 

“You are too.” Benrey replied. He was tired. Too tired to joke. 

“What’s your goal?” The man asked. “Why are you this way?” 

“Listen, man. I just wanted to play video games. And this stupid- this fuckin’, uhhh. . . this world made me hurt them. I didn’t fuckin’- I didn’t want to. But I had to- Feetman lost an arm, man. That wasn’t cool!” 

“And yet, it needed to happen.” The man answered, patiently. 

“It didn’t. I could have just hung out with him and gotten out of Black Mesa.” 

“That simply wasn’t the way the game was supposed to play out, Benrey. You followed him. You managed to change the course of history because you did something I didn’t expect.” 

“What the fu-”

“You became real, Benrey. You all did. Tommy, I knew about Tommy. I made sure he was under my care. I made him real through my own actions. But Harold Coomer, and Bubby, and you. . . you all began to care, and learn.” 

“What about Feetman? Was he not-” 

“He was supposed to be the only unpredictable one there. The. . . player, as it were. He was not meant to be stuck here. Gordon moves the timeline forward through his actions, and when he’s done-” 

“It all starts over, as if none of it happened.” Benrey muttered, glancing at the connected files all around him. 

“You are correct.”

“So. . . so you’re here to reset it all?” 

“Incorrect. I changed it. All of it, in fact. It was a rather small world to begin with. It was. . . not without its challenges to fully expand it.” 

“Fully expand. . . ?” 

“Yes. Neighborhoods. Places outside of Black Mesa. Anything, in fact. There never was much- I made a place for me, a place for my Tommy, but. . . Everybody else never did have a home. Now. . . Everything in it’s place, hmm?” 

Benrey frowned. “And. . . me?” 

“You weren’t supposed to have powers. Many things weren’t supposed to happen that did this time. The fact that you’re out here is a minor miracle. I do not have a place for you, Benrey, because I cannot change you at all.” 

“So you’ll-” 

“Kill you? No. I ask you again, Benrey: What do you want? What life will keep you happy?” 

Happy? Benrey had been happy. Well, maybe not happy, but not miserable. 

“I don’t guess I can’t have everything return to normal, can it?” 

“No. I cannot do that anymore. I could make you famous, or give you money, anywhere you want. You tell me what will keep you from breaking things further. I cannot get rid of you, nor can I ignore you. So where can I put you where you will be out of the way?” 

Benrey thought. 

“Could I. . . Can I stay with my friends?” He asked, quietly. “They’re all I know that’s real, is all.” 

“That is understandable.” The man nodded. “That can be arranged.” 

“. . . right. Cool. Thanks.” Benrey did awkward finger guns. The man was emotionless and turned away, hands held out to the files and lines of code that formed what Benrey knew to be the whole world. 

What had been, mostly, a planted and fictional thought before he fucked up and changed everything from before.

“Hey.” Benrey interrupted before the man touched the code. 

“Yes?” The man turned a steely glance on him. 

“Are they happy?” 

“They will be. With time.” 

“. . . Alright.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is lowkey just setting up any and all post-canon fics I'll ever (if I do?) write. It might gain chapters later but idk man


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